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<title>Last Train Ride out of Mordhaus by ThisisVenereVeritas</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965888">Last Train Ride out of Mordhaus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas'>ThisisVenereVeritas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metalocalypse (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Injury, Contracts, Demons, Gen, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:02:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965888</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After taking a fall, Melmord finds himself at a crossroads, and is handed the choice of a new life, or being hit by a train.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Last Train Ride out of Mordhaus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I sadly do not listen to blues, though I appreciate its roots in classic rock. This being said, the song this fic is based on is The Gun's "Race with the Devil." </p><p>A special thanks to Fishklok/Feeshies for allowing me to adapt their art into words.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All it takes is a moment of greed, and it all comes falling apart, or, in this case, slipping and tumbling off the edge of the gargantuan dragon’s head.</p><p>Plummeting to one’s death is arguably one of the worst ways to go. Too much waiting until the end, giving time to dwell on mistakes. Somewhere between realizing his misstep and skidding off the brow of Mordhaus, Melmord catches a glimpse of Offdensen standing up, lensed stare observing that fatal error and selfish attempt at producing a successful final blow. The look lasts only a second. The fall assures that Offdensen’s expression is nothing more than a blur by the time Melmord admits to his loss, and when it’s nothing more than a speck, the ensuing panic arrives, as does the building vomit and frantic heart rate that goes against the uneven lapse of time. </p><p>He drops, hearing the raging gusts around him, pushing up against his back, producing the slightest glimmer of escape in the form of parachuting, buying time. Melmord sees the throat of the mighty dragon, envisions himself somehow grabbing a hold, but fails as the neck sinks inward, leaving Melmord only to helplessly view the flashes of light from just out of reach windows. Despite his speed, there are instances where he makes out his terrified, dumbfounded expression. It’s then, when he picks up on the high arch of his brows, that Melmord acknowledges the fuckery, the mistake, and impending doom awaiting him once he hits the tracks. The wind’s icy terror cradles him in the worst way imaginable, providing some tension for him to feel the pushback, but not nearly enough to stop the blow. It serves to only extend the length of the fall by a few additional seconds. And god, do the seconds stretch! Melmord’s jaw drops, and the moment lasts forever. He feels the pull of every muscle, the stretch of his tendons when he swings his arms rapidly in the air, trying and failing to latch on to anything. </p><p>Melmord recalls some depresso magazine regarding suicide, and how anyone who survives started regretting the action about halfway down. Imagine that. Halfway into killing yourself, and you change your mind? Worse, some people survive the fall. Melmord can’t begin to register where he lies as he stares up at the dwindling figure of Offdensen, a damn insect in the increasing dark mass of oppressive clouds and foggy moonlight.</p><p><em> At least you’ll have a nice view before you go</em>, he thinks with embittered bemusement, but the humor gained from the instant of dark comedy vanishes the moment Melmord sees a red flash, perhaps from an opened window, or a bird fluttering by, and remembers he’s falling to his death. He is falling to his death. God, he had the high ground, with Offdensen at the edge, and he went and lunged like a damn fool. One literal slip-up, and he’s a dead man.</p><p><em> This can’t be real </em>comes next, followed by the bargaining, the prayers that he might find a single way out of this, a miracle or hail Mary, but when Melmord blinks, can barely even see Offdensen at the top. His hair cuts across his vision. Melmord wonders why he couldn’t keep the fight to Mordhaus’ spine, why he had to take it that far, why he engaged in swordfight to begin with. </p><p>Another horrendously cold breeze smacks his face, and Melmord shuts his eyes, loosens his grip on the sword’s hilt, and when he opens them, sees red spiraling around his peripheral. A hoarse chuckle grips him, rings just behind his ear. Melmord chalks it up to the wind and his nerves getting the better of him, but then there came warm prickles of nails dancing across his bare neck, and when Melmord holds his breath for the nearing impact, is sure he hears his name being hissed over the turbines. A final, guttural laugh sends an uneasy quake, and when Melmord turns to check over his shoulder and make sense of the noise, sees the detailed structure of the train’s electronic rail leading to and from Mordhaus.</p><p>With his death less than a hundred feet away, he panics and turns around. Melmord utters an airy, silent wail, feels the tears and regret pour forth, and above it all, hears the unholy cackle surge and eat at his senses. It’s the wind, Melmord thinks. It’s Mordhaus’ imposing spirit, it’s Offdensen standing at the top and delighting in his accidental win, or some unseen deity ready to greet him in the afterlife, or maybe it’s just all in his–</p><p>And then comes the impact. </p><p>A loud, hard strike slams Melmord’s entire body into the railing. A crushing blow that releases thousands of pounds of magnified weight and tension, shattering Melmord as his body bounces back up from its own, intense force. A tight spring that explodes when released, Melmord’s vision goes red when he rebounds, hearing muffle as it fills with blood. A splatter resulting in his eardrums bursting, skin breaking and interior rupturing. Organs, muscles and blood vessels burst and split like random fissure. His eyes bulge from his sockets. Mouth spits up blood.</p><p>The laughter grows louder, echoes and snakes into Melmord’s defunct mind. Fragments of broken skull dig into his brain, sever his contact with his broken arms, limp legs that were in a crooked disarray. His open mouth gushes acidic blood.  Melmord tastes half-digested brandy mixed with pieces of his stomach. The last thing his broken nerves detect is the cold steel beam that split his spine in twain.</p><p>Through the bloody fog, Melmord hears the ungodly mirth ringing over him. As his mind finally catches on, picks up on the damage, the consuming numbness reaching up his chest and into his neck, he realizes it’s not a voice, but the roar of the train driving towards the castle. A massive flare of light flashes across, and Melmord’s dying heart quakes with fear at death inbound, at the end of everything.</p><p>…</p><p>…</p><p>…</p><p>Something is wrong.</p><p>…</p><p>…</p><p>…</p><p>The impact doesn’t kill him.</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>Not… right away.</p><p>It’s quiet. The rays from the train still blazes behind him, but doesn’t shift in size. The rail no longer rumbles, and Melmord cannot hear the carnivorous howl of the train ready to turn his misshapen form into red mulch.</p><p>Fixed in place, Melmord’s spots two disconcerting, disturbing shadows that, despite his vision, can make out in front of the tunnel. Melmord recognizes the small, haggard shape, snapped neck and lumpish form as his own, his dying body about to be hit by the train. The shape alone is terrifying, jaw-dropping and would be vomit inducing, were it not for Melmord’s mouth already hanging and leaking its share of acid, flesh and blood. However,  it’s the presence of a second shadow, tall, still and unnerving, that rattles Melmord’s cold, broken body to the core.</p><p>Through the deafening silence, Melmord watches the shadow break into movement, and from his peripheral, catches the tips of finely polished shoes, the taps of its heels hitting the smooth rail. Shoes give way to legs, then the bottom of a dark, maroon coat. Melmord’s eyes try rolling back into his skull, consciousness ready to sink into the everlasting abyss, but the all-encompassing sound of the dry, rough cackles fills him with just enough will, enough animalistic fear that Melmord’s bloodied irises search for its source, leading up to the tall, pale figure standing above his soon-to-be-corpse.</p><p>A man, though only by appearance. Dressed in a handsome suit and coat, his gaunt, ghostly features, the glow of his eye, and divine flow of his jet-black hair signals to Melmord that there is something otherworldly amiss. Maybe it’s his shredded brain, but Melmord senses the figure above him isn’t human. The train frozen in place, the stillness of the air; somehow, it’s this creature’s doing. </p><p>Then, the man smiles. “Good evening,” he greets through paper thin lips. “And, if you don’t mind me adding, good show.”</p><p>Melmord oozes blood from his mouth; the only response he can give without exerting himself further.</p><p>“What a travesty,” the man in red says, shaking his head. “To see a good man get the raw end of a deal.” Like everything else, his voice is alien. Hoarse, but notably layered, like there’s multiple voices talking at once.</p><p>Melmord recognizes it right away. The same, cruel laughter he heard while falling, now coming to greet him in the form of death. </p><p>“I suppose it’s too late now, but you would do well to refrain from altering, or outright stealing a <em>demon’s</em> contract,” the pale man continues, smile lengthening as Melmord lets out a wet rattle at the word. “We can be rather…<em>paternal</em> with our souls.”</p><p>Demons? Shit, is this death? Is this real? Is this what it means to die?</p><p>Thousands of questions, images of Dethklok and him falling down the dragon’s head play across his wounded mind. Voices flicker, memories blur as Melmord struggles to make sense of the matter, of the man above him slowly removing his leather gloves to tuck them away into his coat’s pockets. His brain is dying, but Melmord scrapes together a few ideas, revelations to the horrors unraveling before him.</p><p>He gurgles out foamy, red spit.</p><p>“No. Sadly, I’m not the one charged with Dethklok,” the demonic man replies with a firm, pronounced frown that makes his already wasted features more skeletal and hellish. “<em> That </em> would be Offdensen.”</p><p>Melmord’s bloodshot eyes tremble.</p><p>“Yes, it is rather infuriating.” The demon kneels, dropping into a squat that still manages to appear graceful, fluid in movement and form. “Be proud though, you’re one of the few that managed to get this close to breaking a demon’s contract,” he states, then raises a pointed finger, nail long and black, and tip glistening like a knife. “For that reason, and for your rather… <em> entertaining </em> display with Offdensen, I’ve a deal to make with you.”</p><p>In his other hand a collection of papers appears, bursting into existence in a cloud of ash-colored smoke.</p><p>“Work for me,” the demon says, smile showing a row of fine, white teeth. “I assure you, your talents will not be wasted under my employment.”</p><p>Melmord stares blankly at the contract. The small, barely legible words never reach his exhausted mind. It’s far too much to take in. The fall. The slip. The fear and bargaining. Hitting and splattering, but not dying. The pain? Where is the pain? Is the man real? Are demons real? And, if so, is he foolish enough to sign a deal with one, after supposedly losing to another?   </p><p>Picking up on his concern, the demons utters a dry snicker. “I’m sure you’ve many inquiries, and if we had all the time of the world, I’d answer them for you; <em> however </em>,” the demon casts a long finger beyond Melmord’s line of sight, to the beaming light of the halted train, “I cannot hold that train forever.”</p><p>Despair crept up Melmord’s broken spine, filled dying nerves with a hazy remembrance that death was incoming, and that he didn’t want to die. He never intended to die. He just wanted to run Dethklok! Be the leading man and have fun with the guys. He won over their favor fair and square!</p><p>And now, this contract? This fucking piece of paper that magically manifested through a puff of dying flames. He’s got to sign it if he wants to live, right?</p><p>Melmord eyes the treaty, wheezing as he tries to make sense of the first few lines. The sentences are long, wording well-crafted, and impossible to decipher with his crushed brain.</p><p>The demon’s chuckles. “What will you do? Have you time to read every word, decode every clause and perform reasonable edits?” </p><p>Melmord’s eyelid twitches. Whether the demon’s undoing, or time itself coming undone, Melmord feels a tinge of pain start to burgeon across his lower back. His lungs, collapsed and pooling with blood, start to weigh heavy against his chest, and bring about a desire to cough and struggle for breath. His mind, his very being, is splitting apart. Blood leaks from every damn orifice of his, but Melmord can feel his mind slipping faster, breaking apart as bones slice through jellified meat, cutting his existence, memories and personhood. </p><p>This is death. The icy rush creeping across him, severing his ligaments with a brush of numbness that Melmord cannot fight. This is death, and it’s Offdensen’s cold, empty eyes when he warned him he’d never willingly separate from Dethklok.</p><p>This is death, and it’s real. </p><p>A nail drags across Melmord’s jawline. Startled by the tingle, Melmord raises his eyes to the demonic presence.</p><p>“You’re at a crossroads, <em> Melmord</em>,” he states plainly. </p><p>By now, it comes as no surprise that the man knows his name. This is death, and he’s making a deal with the literal Devil. The man himself. Well, <em> shit </em>.</p><p>The Devil tilts Melmord’s head so the man has nowhere else to look. Melmord stares into the eyes of a god, one snake-like, the other reflecting his animosity, though to what, Melmord struggles to pinpoint. The pain swells inside of him, and the acid wells. His insides are sloshy, and if Melmord didn’t know any better, were starting to collapse on top of one another.</p><p>There’s a sound in the backdrop, a low, clattering hum that’s becoming more pronounced. Melmord doesn’t need the demon’s help to see it’s the train. Time’s doing its work, and reality is just around the corner, but Melmord hesitates against achieving whatever wild fantasy this demon has in store for him in favor of more convincing. His broken heart barely can muster a beat, and there’s an unseen hand gripping his throat, but he’s terrified.</p><p>Underneath him, the railing begins to tremble.</p><p>Frightened, Melmord’s eyes shift to its origin, catching only the sky and mounting light of the train’s front slowly impeding on him. A clawed hand brings him back to The Devil.</p><p>Under the hat, Melmord makes out a grisly smirk. “You raced against the devil for the death metal throne, and lost,” The Devil states, palm lightly patting Melmord’s bloody cheek. “But a loss does not signify absolute defeat.”</p><p>Melmord winces at a sharp sting. His eyes drop, and he spots his bloodied hand lifting. It’s not by his own design, and when Melmord attempts to move it on his own, only sees two of his non-broken fingers give a minute wiggle. His arm rises, hand stopping in front of the contract. The Demon takes it, pricks the tip of Melmord’s working index finger with the end of his long nail, breaking skin and leaving behind a droplet of blood.</p><p>“Work for me, and we’ll consolidate a plan,” The Devil states, freeing his hold of Melmord’s hand, but letting it float near his contract. “Dance with me for a while, and develop the swing and moves needed for a proper revenge.”</p><p>Revenge? Melmord hardly had the time to think of such a topic during his fall, but  now the thought strikes his fancies. That, and the impending train. Melmord can’t see it, but can certainly feel its stampede underneath his warped form, hear its growl shift into an angry moan.</p><p>“What do you say, Melmord?” The Devil asks. “Will you take a ride with me, or will this be your last stop for the night?”</p><p>It’s one hell of an offer, Melmord muses, and with the train’s roof now meeting his peripheral, it’s now or never.</p><p>Fever dream or not, anything is better than getting hit by a train. Real or some bullshit his oxygen-deprived brain is mustering at the very last minute, Melmord figures he has nothing left to lose. With his remaining strength, he presses his finger against the parchments, tip tingling upon impact. A heat courses up the ailing appendage, and Melmord senses the pain pulsing across the shredded nerves vanish, feels the peculiar sensation of shattered bones and ripped muscles realigning.</p><p>The Devil stares at the fingerprint. With a smile, he snaps a finger. The paper disappears and, with it, the cruel demeanor presiding over The Devil. There’s a change in his composure as he nears Melmord, movement flowing despite the quaking metal. </p><p>He offers his hand. “How do you feel about the blues?”</p><hr/><p>At the top of Mordhaus, Charles stares, winded lungs bringing his shoulders to a rise, as the train carrying the next batch of klokateers breaches the tunnel. The machine dives straight into the body, erupting a vivid flicker of red before returning to its usual grey. Assured of the fatality, Charles backs from Mordhaus’ snout, steps returning to their natural, controlled gait as he turns his attention away from minor inconveniences, to more important matters.</p><p>He needs to replace this suit before breaking the bad news with the boys. A shame: he’ll likely miss the branding of the gears. Ah, well. </p><p>Charles reaches to fix his hair back into place, when the distant rumble of an engine howling under Mordhaus’ bowls sends a familiar shudder down his spine. The spiteful hum of an old, 1920’s Ford, enhanced with the souls sold for blues fame. Charles recognizes the call of the enchanted jalopy, had the pleasure of taking the wheel once, many eons prior, when his enemies were few and far between. He’s careful not to let it show, but Charles quickens his pace, eyes set on the tail end of Mordhaus. Focus centered, he manifests himself at the end of the building, eyes drawn to the railway underneath.</p><p>The train isn’t set to break through the tunnel for another three minutes, but already Charles can identify the moving rattle, the pop and the growl of the nearing vehicle. Through a narrowed glare, Charles invites the possibility, humors the idea that, with age, his eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be, nor his ability to detect and sense the presence of an old friend. He was quite sure he saw Melmord’s body splatter, but with some consideration, distastefully concludes he only saw red, maroon specifically.</p><p><em> His </em> favorite color, if Charles recounted correctly.</p><p>The last train ride out of Mordhaus ignites its departure with a mighty call, and Charles, eager to see whether his inclination was right, kneels over the edge, one foot balanced perfectly on top of the tail's central beam. Sure enough, a light pierces out of the tunnel, and as Charles notes the shape of each headlight, sneers distastefully at the sight of an enchanted car racing out from it, engine ablaze in a dark flame.</p><p>Surprised by the change, Charles steps away, though his eyes never cease to chase the peculiar sight. </p><p>The old Ford’s front stretches, smoothes out, and metal plates darken, adopting a chrome sheen as it zips across the train tracks. Its transformation proceeds, shifting from its once tasteful, original design, to that of something more modern and befitting of its current driver. Through an admittedly amused lens, Charles watches the model widen, wheels buff and expand and take on a sportier design. The angry bellow of the train follows, just as the vehicle sheds its flat roof, exposing the two figures within. Charles doesn’t bother with the train: he knows it cannot hope to catch up to the car burning over the tracks, shattering and melting the metal rail with an unholy flame left from a heel slamming down on the accelerator. </p><p>Resting on top of the tail, Charles sets his sights on the two offenders making their grand escape.</p><p>There sits The Blues Devil, hat tucked on top of his lap, eyes and mouth drawn to a mere slither as he reclines in the passenger seat, letting his new servant take the helm and race off the tracks. Though a mere blur, Charles catches the highlighted streaks of Melmord’s hair dancing wildly as he breaks the triple digits and drives the car off the road, and into the dark of the night.</p><p>“So, that’s it then,” Charles murmurs with some annoyance. Yet another problem for him to later deal with. “Ah, <em> well</em>. So be it.” </p><p>First things first: put on a clean shirt and suit.</p><p>The rapid, icy winds warm, fueled by the cries of the Model A turned Mustang speeding through the curving highway leading away from Mordhaus. Under the gulls, Charles detects the low guzzle of horns, scratched strings and, above it all, the irritating sound of victorious laughter.</p><p>The music grows louder, more rapid, swaying along with Melmord’s hands as he steers the car to make a wide turn. Rubber tears through the asphalt, smoldering and leaving behind a fiery trail that sends smoke out into the air. The newly formed radio blasts what Melmord knows isn’t pure blues, but a mix of his own personal tastes swirling under an unseen orchestra of crazed brass instruments.</p><p>Fine as hell, he thinks, and grins when he slams his foot against the accelerator.</p><p>“Oh, fuck yeah!”</p><p>The wind soothes his prickling face, skin lined with glowing stitches still in the process of healing. Melmord watches the eerie glow shrink across the back of his exposed wrists and hands as he drives forward, tasting the diminished remains of iron in the back of this throat. The pain coursing through his frame is a mere memory of what it was minutes ago, and proceeds to fade from his thoughts as he observes the speedometer reach numbers he’d only dream of reaching as a child.</p><p><em> This is real</em>, he muses, facing the wild, oppressive forest with a grin.</p><p>“Enjoy the ride,” The Blues Devil says beside him, catching some flowing strands of his long mane and tucking it behind an ear. “We’ve got quite the journey ahead.”</p><p>Unafraid, Melmord turns away from the road to face the demon. “What’re you thinking, boss?”</p><p>The Devil smiles. “For our plan, we’ll need a great number of souls. Enough to compete against Dethklok.”</p><p><em> And Offdensen</em>, Melmord thinks. He removes a hand from the wheel, reaches into his freshly pressed coat, and fishes out a joint.</p><p>“I have an idea,” he says, bringing it up to his lips.</p><p>Beside him, The Blues Devil raises a finger, igniting a small flame from the tip of his blackened nail. Melmord raises a brow at the sight, utters a cheery hum, then nears the unholy flame, inviting the demons to light the tip. </p><p>“Go on,” The Devil says, voice heated and, in accordance with the music, sends a delighted shiver as Melmord inhales a deep, sultry drag. “Amuse me.”</p><p>“You know a thing or two about boy bands?” Melmord asks, grin clouded with a pillow of smoke. </p><p>The Devil stares, then breaks into a laugh that consumes the night. A dreaded, terrible screech that carries the voices of dozens, perhaps hundreds of captured souls. A frightening orchestra, underlined with the cries of every man and woman The Devil’s toyed and worked with, and Melmord, his latest project, can hear the treble of his own vocals accompanying the otherworldly uproar.</p><p>He doesn’t sound half bad.</p><p>Amused by the thought, Melmord carries on, hand at the wheel, grin cracking to a smoky chuckle, a shared guffaw as man and demon race through the woods, away from Mordhaus, and towards their unseen destination. Wind in his hair, and sunglasses sinking down the bridge of his nose, Melmord takes another drag, then offers the joint to his new friend before facing the road with newfound fortitude.</p><p>This is real, and Melmord’s never felt more alive.</p>
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